I don't want to be the subject of your rambling as you pick couplets and sincerity from that box inside your head. I don't want to be the blueprint of your rhythmic meander nor the map revealing the magic of your self assessed genius. Do not write a poem. 
 
I may well be your muse of five thousand days and the thought of shaping the quill as it scratches the page intrigues me. Flatters me. Teases a smile from me when the day does not deserve one. Yet here I lay on some fantasy chaise longue and you mix colours on your palette and capture me. Do not write a poem. 
 
Yet the years drift by in idle engagement with things that so matter but in their earnest matter little. Across this pond, this pool of light and sound and days with some purpose but no soul touched reward, I think of you. I hate myself for doing so and I cry out to the magpies that journal my life, do not let him write a poem. 
Tagged as: Poetry
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